She Reads, He Follows
by ochreish
Summary: He never spoke to her, never once had the courage to introduce himself, but Seiji Amasawa figured himself quite in love with the dreamer in the library. Now, if only she would notice him. A prequel, of sorts. Seiji-centric. One-shot. Enjoy and review.


**She Reads, He** **Follows**  
this is how seiji fell in love with shizuku

* * *

The first time Seiji sees her, he is not at all impressed. She is reading - hair askew and limbs akimbo - a thick tome of a book and wiping away tears that really should not be falling because _honestly_ , crying in public is only for little children.

 _ **Not**_ _for teenage girls who spend their free-time in the library_.

However, despite his attempts to find fault in her, he finds his curiosity piqued by the girl and, half knowingly and half _un_ knowingly, takes a seat where he can simultaneously work on his history essay while watching her from the corner of his eye.

He spends a good fifteen minutes pretending to work, head down and shoulders tense, when in reality he is watching her flick through pages like food—her expressions leaping from north to south as she devours every written side of the book.

 _What a strange, strange girl_ , he thinks to himself. Still, he can't help himself from watching. There's something about her that draws his attention. He pretends it's her eccentricity and he glances at her with bemusement like all of the other patrons do whenever she breaks the silence with her gasps and soft sighs, but he knows inside it isn't. Finally, after twenty minutes of this farce, he forces himself to turn away from her and deliberately plants his pen onto the paper from which he _is_ going to write an amazing essay on the Edo period _and_ receive yet another top-tier mark.

("You can do it, Son," says Father over dinner one night. "Your mother and I believe you can get into the top university with ease.")

So, for a full thirty minutes, he is engrossed in two thousand words of _excellence_ , because anything less is a failure. And no girl with her head in the clouds is going to stop him, whether conscious of it or not.

However, amidst his in-depth analysis of battles for succession, betrayal and general political turmoil, he is hyper-aware of the girl when she passes him ten minutes later. Her soft footsteps, a strange staccato mix of skip and hop, leave behind a niggling curiosity to discover more, to learn more, to dream?

(His first violin. Not as refined as it should be. An ugly rock that's beautiful on the inside.)

"Flying in feathers, freely frolicking friends," she whispers, giggling, and he counts her fading footfalls to the library checkout counter.

He stays still for a moment, before stubbornly turning back to his paper, pen in hand, intrigued.

.

.

Seiji's back the next day, history essay still in hand. He's disappointed when he does not immediately see the girl in his peripheral vision.

Maybe she's hanging out with her friends at the park and eating ice cream like a normal girl, like the girls in his class do. Maybe she's not the bookworm he pegged her to be.

After all, it's a beautiful day... What are _you_ doing inside, Amasawa? But that question's easy to answer: he has always prioritised his studies before his social life—before anything, for that matter. Even his dreams.

(His third violin is his pride and joy and places above all of his scholastic and musical achievements. "A distraction?" his father asks, eyes hard and disapproving. "Best keep your head out of the clouds." And that's the end of that.)

 _Work hard, play later_ , he recites to himself, but it rings dull in his mind like an ill-strung violin.

He frowns for a moment, before taking the same seat he took yesterday. Fifteen minutes into his essay, a telltale blur passes by. It's her, and she's stalking the bookshelf like a cat; the fantasy and fairytale section is her prey.

He follows her with his eyes and nearly gasps when she takes the seat right next to him. He's pinned to his chair like a statue, but inside his stone heart is beating a mile a minute.

"Hello," she mutters absentmindedly, before pushing back a stray piece of fringe from her face. It isn't blonde or curly like the girl on the cover's, but it's thick and brown and inexplicably _charming_. He wants to touch it. "Excuse the intrusion."

"It's fine," he manages to choke out, before sitting there, frozen. It's takes about five minutes of listening to her flick through the pages before he can pick up his pen and manage to write down any words. Even then, he knows that he won't be able to submit what he's written.

 _Some soldiers during the Edo period wondered why her hair was so brown, or her breath so sweet. They also wondered why she didn't mind crying in public. They mused on the significance of dust allergies, for it was a possibility._

 _Damn._

.

.

She's crying again. By now, he's long since finished his paper but he can't help himself from visiting the library every day, even on Sundays. It just so happens that she's there every day, too. Must be a small world, but who's he kidding? He's been trying to get her attention for ages now.

Speaking of which, he's sitting in the seat right next to her and they're so close that their shoulders are almost touching and whenever she cries he can feel the tremors in the air racked from her silent sobs.

All the while he's thinking to himself, _look at me_. _Please just notice me for once_. And, as if by magic, she turns towards him. Her nose is red and her eyes are misty with tears. A single drop hangs pitifully from the end of one sweet eyelash.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," she whispers, edging closer to him with each word. Her cheeks are flushed but he swears that he's more flustered than she is. "Would you happen to have a tissue of some sort? I seem to have lost myself again." She gestures with a pale hand to her messy hair and tear-stricken complexion.

At this point, he should've played his part right and made a lasting impression, but instead he blusters, "Oh, um, sure," before desperately rifling through his pockets for a tissue or _something_. _Something_ , it turns out, is an embarrassing handkerchief with little violins embroidered on it.

"H-here," he stutters, handing over the cloth with flaming cheeks. Their fingers brush together for one moment and he doesn't dare look her way, for fear of her seeing his expression. He's never been so flustered in his life.

"Oh!" she gasps, taking it in her hands. He groans inwardly. Surely, surely she's laughing at him on the inside. Then, much to his surprise, she murmurs, "Oh, I can't take this. It must be very precious. Thank you though." And then, placing the white fabric back into his outstretched palm, she bows distractedly and stumbles out of the room.

He watches her fading silhouette with wistful bemusement.

.

.

The seventeenth time Seiji sees her, he is impressed. As always, she is perched near the fantasy and fairy-tale section, but this time he almost misses her with the huge stack of books piled in front of her. The books are balanced precariously one on top of the other and the way the pile curves makes it look like some daring literary version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

He's feeling particularly bold today, so he takes the seat right across from her but besides a vague inclination of the head, she doesn't notice him at all.

"Pardon the intrusion," he murmurs, spreading his study papers in front of him. Exam week is just around the corner and if he studies he can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Get good grades _and_ the girl, hopefully…

("You're a sly one, Seiji," Grandfather laughs when he hears about the situation. "Must be some girl you've got there. Remember, The Art of War for the girl's heart!" Ojii-san was always his favourite for a reason.)

"Mhmm," she replies, in between turning the pages. Sun Tzu would be so disappointed. He was being subtle (to the point of formlessness) and mysterious (to the point of soundlessness) so why, _why_ wasn't it working? The whole crying/handkerchief debacle of yesteryear seemed to make no difference to his campaign—it was left behind in the vestiges of her memory in favour of today's adventures.

" _The Art of War_ for the girl's heart, huh?" he mutters stormily as he stomps down the stone steps of the library. "Yeah, right."

 _The only thing she_ _'_ _ll notice is a book_.

.

.

He's only ever been discouraged a few times in his life, but the solution has always been the same: soba noodles at Nishi's Antiques. It takes a few knocks at the door before he hears the soft shuffling of Grandfather's feet up the stairs, and when the old man finally opens the door he takes one look at him and understands.

"Trouble in paradise, m'boy?" he rumbles, glancing at him with a sympathetic gleam in his eye. It's the gleam that ultimately stops him from ranting on about Sun Tzu's ineffectiveness. Instead, he shrugs and settles for a vague, "You could say that I'm as lost as Milton."

Ojii-san shoots him a look and soon they're both chuckling. "Come in, come in!" He gestures to the upholstered chair next to the Baron and pulls it out for him before puttering off downstairs.

"Why don't you talk to the Baron while I prepare us some noodles, Seiji."

"Sounds good, Gramps," he replies, sinking and slumping into plush cushion. He pushes himself forward, his body propped up by his arms, until his gaze is level with the jade-green eyes of the gentlemanly feline. Stories from his childhood shift before his eyes: the passionate love between a baron and a lady, a war and a tragic separation.

"How are you, Baron?" he asks, staring into the statue's jade green eyes. They glint with acknowledgement in the noonday sun.

He leans down until his nose brushes against smooth porcelain.

"Look Baron," he confides, his voice low, "There, there's this girl. At the library."

In the face of the inscrutable cat, Seiji blushes. Below stairs, he can hear the clattering of dishes and pots as Ojii-san prepares his famous noodles.

"I mean," he continues, "I've never spoken to her but she's unlike any girl I've ever seen. She's got these dreamy eyes and she's pretty! Real pretty. She reminds me of that mural Gramps fixed a few months ago, you know the brunette stargazer?"

He pauses for a second, his mind bringing forth images of the girl. He thinks of her sitting prettily in front of the library, her short hair swaying enticingly in the gentle murmuring of the spring breeze. By her feet, as always, is a small pile of books. Books.

 _And therein lies the problem_.

"I want her to notice me but the only thing she'll notice is a book!"

"She only notices books, huh?" says a voice from behind. A wooden tray clanks in front of him.

"Yeah," he sighs, murmuring a quick _thank you_ as Ojii-san places the steaming bowls of noodles on the table. He takes his chopsticks in hand and is about to dig in when the image of her comes up again.

"She's never even noticed me. Not once. All she focuses on are fairytales and fantasies."

"A dreamer, eh?" asks Jii-san, absently tugging at the white scruff of his beard. "You'll find that all the best women are…"

A dreamy and faraway look overtakes his grandfather's eyes as the ghost of the lady he left behind passes through the room.

"Seiji," his grandfather murmurs distantly. "Don't give up on Sun Tzu just yet. Remember—"

"—The Art of War for the girl's heart," he finishes.

"Exactly, m'boy, exactly."

.

.

The next day, he puts his plan into action. For the moment, he isn't concerned about catching her attention; instead, when he walks into the library, he stalks up to the shelf and in one sweeping motion, he clears at least half a row of books into the heavy-duty bag Ojii-san lent him.

When he walks up to the library checkout and hefts the bag up onto the counter, the librarian has a comically befuddled look on her face. Her expression is even more exaggerated when he unloads the bag onto the countertop. The stack of books he makes puts even the literary Leaning Tower to shame.

"You're going to check _all_ of these out?" the librarian asks slowly.

"Erm, yes. If you would."

"Well sure," is her reply, alongside a slightly mumbled, "Damn, there must be at least twenty books in here."

He's so embarrassed that he feels compelled to give an explanation. "I, I've recently become a fantasy enthusiast and I _really_ want to get through the shelf as soon as possible."

"…I see." She obviously doesn't, but he isn't prepared to give the real reason and so settles for a noncommittal shrug.

"Anyway, do you have your library card, sir?"

He grasps his back pocket, before pulling out his borrower card.

"Is this you?" she asks, gesturing to the photo on the card. It's him, but a few years ago with a bit more puppy fat and a stubborn cowlick.

He sighs. "That's me."

"Well, you grew up handsome. Now, sign here please, and here, and here. Oh, and here too!"

In his neatest handwriting, he carefully writes out the characters that spell out his name. _Seiji Amasawa_.

* * *

 _Shizuku_.

In a small room in an equally small apartment, Shizuku Tsukishima has her head in a book. Although it isn't an unusual sight, the fact that she hasn't even passed the title page is. With her head propped up contemplatively on one nail-bitten hand, she stares at the characters that have played companion to her these past two weeks.

 _Seiji Amasawa_.

Her nose scrunches up as she considers the man behind the name. It's a very strong name for an f&f reader. What would he look like? In her imagination, Seiji Amasawa has curly hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, like the usual sort she sees everyday in the library.

Except for his dreamy eyes! Any guy as into f&f as her would have to be a dreamer, wouldn't he?

She stares intently at the card, holding the yellowed paper between her thumb and forefinger. After a few moments of consideration, she reluctantly places it back in its plastic sleeve.

"Who are you, Seiji Amasawa?" she wonders, before turning the page.

* * *

 _Fin._


End file.
